


In the Middle of the Night

by mm8



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Beads, Angst, Apparently I never crossposted this anywhere even though I wrote this in 2013 whhaaa?, BDSM, Barebacking, Begging, Blow Jobs, Cockblocking, Dirty Talk, Grief/Mourning, Handcuffs, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Spreader Bars, Tags!, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-06 20:44:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5430197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mm8/pseuds/mm8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Greg were forced to move on after their lover decided to take a leap off St. Bart's. In the two and a half years since his suicide, they've grown stronger and closer together. The bubble bursts one night when someone breaks into their flat and changes their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Middle of the Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kitsune_Scribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitsune_Scribe/gifts).



> Special thanks goes out to czarina_kitty, crazycatt71 and drarryxlover. crazycatt71 and drarryxlover helped me bounce ideas off for this fic. czarina_kitty for the being the fastest beta on the planet. Without you three, this wouldn't exist. As always, thanks to the mods of sherlockmas.
> 
> Wrote this in 2013 and apparently never posted it outside of the fest. 0.0

Heavy breaths escaped John's lips and his glistening chest rose and fell rapidly. It was so hard, but he practiced self-restraint and kept his death grip on the bed's headboard. Tiny, breathy moans fell from John as he twisted his head. 

"Christ, John," Greg whispered as he watched his lover's puffy ring of muscles expand and contract around the thick beads. John's engorged cock, red and throbbing, leaked strings of pre-cum over his stomach. "Fuck, do you know how gorgeous you look?" He bent down to chastely kiss one of John's knees, forced into the position by the spreader bar. 

John pushed back on the warmed up glass, so eager for more. " _Please_ ," he begged. "Greg, stop teasing and just fuck me."

The copper smirked, tutting at the doctor. "You almost have the whole thing in you. John, you're so pretty with all ten beads inside your tight arse. Squirming and _begging_ to have your arse filled."

" _Fuuuck_ ," John drawled out, arching his back upwards towards the sky. 

As Greg began to ease in the final bead into John's abused hole, there came the familiar rattling of the ancient door knob, the audible click of the lock. They both stilled as the door swung on its hinges and hit the wall. They could hear loud and prominent footfalls as if the intruder wanted to be heard.

They stared at each other, eyes blown wide.

"That wasn't Mrs. Hudson," John said. "She always knocks. Everyone does."

"Shit," Greg cursed. He pulled the beads from John's body and set them aside. Greg shoved on his black boxers and withdrew his Glock from the bottom drawer of the dresser. 

When he glanced over, John was sitting up, had one of the cuffs undone and was in the middle of the other. Their eyes met, John's were guarded. Greg couldn't help but pull a small smile, trying to relieve his partner's well deserved concern. Using hand signals, he indicated that he was going to the front room. The blond crooked a finger, wanting the cop to come closer and Greg tip-toed over. Greg gasped as John grasped the back of his neck, pulling him forward into a kiss. It was quick but desperate. John nipped at his lover's lips and fought for dominance with his tongue. He rested his head against the silver haired cop's, breathing heavily. 

"I'm not losing you."

The word _too_ was left unsaid.

Greg ghosted his lips against John's before stepping out of their private sanctuary. The rest of their Baker Street flat was still dark. Luckily, Greg had memorized the floor pattern years ago because of the night shifts. He hadn't wanted to wake up John or Sher--. No, it hurt too much to think of him. Jesus, especially now. Next week would mark two and half years. Greg shook himself. He needed to snap out of it.

The cop could smell the spices that lingered from the curry they'd eaten earlier, while watching reruns of Law & Order UK. Greg's non-dominant hand felt for the light, his fingers ready to flip the switch. The springs of John's chair groaned as the intruder sat in it. Greg turned on the light.

He nearly dropped his gun. _Nearly_.

"Get the fuck out," Greg ordered, his Glock still aimed at the prowler. 

Sherlock held out his empty pale hands, that telltale smirk on his face. "Why ever so Lestrade? I live here. My name is still on the lease." 

Sherlock was there. Alive. Sitting in John's chair as if claiming his turf. His long legs were crossed, exposing some of his elegant skin and dark socks. He was dressed in one of those expensive tight purple shirts of his and dress pants. The long wool coat trailed on the floor. His curly black hair was even styled the same. He was here as if nothing had changed. Fuck. 

"An error. A technically," Greg growled. "Brought on by the meddling of _your_ brother. See why now. I should have you both arrested! And by the way, _I'm_ on the lease now. So I have full right to say this, Sherlock. Get out of our flat or I swear I _will_ shoot you and it won't be somewhere pleasant." 

Sherlock stood, his eyes narrowed and his forehead creased. He made sure that he had his hands up for the cop to see. He moved forward, cautiously, slowly, every step coming closer to his former lover. He stopped when he was about an inch from the barrel of the Glock. The genius glanced down the barrel and at Greg several times. "Lestrade," his baritone voice rumbled through his chest, sending blood straight to Greg's cock. "What's going—"

John apparently decided that it was a perfect time to enter the living room, holding his own army issued Browning pistol. The trio gawked at each other at different levels of shock. The silence stretched on. 

Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed. His voice quivered. "John—"

"I don't want to hear it." 

Sherlock's face turned to a sick shade of green. "Please, John—"

"I don't need your reasons. _We_ don't want your explanations." John clenched his right fist and suddenly took extreme interest in the carpet. 

Sherlock tried to make a move to comfort the doctor but Greg blocked him with his arm and the genius didn't fight him.

"You… you…" John raised his head and both men sucked in a breath. Silent tears ran down the soldier's cheeks. His eyes already beginning to turn red. "You _left_ us, Sherlock!" He screamed. "You left us and we thought you were dead! We mourned you. Went to your funeral. You have a proper grave!" John's breath rattled and his hands shook. "You need to go."

Sherlock stood there, rooted the floor. His hooded eyes flicking back and forth between his ex-lovers.

"Go!" John yelled.

The genius nodded dumbly, and took two steps before someone knocked on the door and walked into the flat.

"Boys, what's all this shouting? Are you watching one of those films on the telly?" Mrs. Hudson clacked her tongue and instinctively began to pick up Greg's work shoes and set them on the mat where they were supposed to go. "Only there's this black car outside. Are you expecting—" Her eyes widened and she hit the back of the wall when she caught sight of Sherlock. "Oh my Lord!" She shouted while crossing herself.

"It's alright, Mrs. Hudson. I was just on my way out." He breezed past her without looking back.

Greg moved to the window and watched as Sherlock exited 221 Baker Street and got into the discreet black car. The cop noticed that it was one of Mycroft's female assistants that held the door open. The car drove away a moment later. 

John let out a woeful sob fell to his knees. Greg rushed to his side, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and resting his chin on the doctor's head. 

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson bit her thumb. "I'll make some tea, shall I?"  


* * *

"I take it didn't go well?"

"Stop looking so smug, Mycroft."

"Oh, how can I not brother mine?" Mycroft chuckled more to himself. He braced himself as the car went over a bump. "What did you expect? That you'd flounce into Baker Street unannounced and John and Gregory would welcome you back with open arms?"

Sherlock grunted as he put his feet up on the partition diving the back and front seats. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched London pass them by. "I do not _flounce_."

"Don't pout Sherlock because of your idiocy. Gregory and John have all the right to eject you from Baker Street after what you put them through."

The detective fumed. "What I put them through? I did it for them!"

Mycroft held up a hand. "Peace, brother. I understand your reasons but I also know that your _death_ hasn't boded well with your lovers."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. He waited until the driver began to hit the break and park in front of his brother's James Street flat to ask, "What would you suggest that I do to fix this, brother dear?" 

"That," the older sibling said as he got out of the car. "Is entirely at your discretion."  


* * *

They ate breakfast in silence. 

Greg kept staring at Sherlock's chair, imaging that it was 'the good old days' and that the eccentric man was sitting there picking at his fried eggs, eating one bite before shoving his food onto Greg and John's plates, then rushing off to play the violin or check on the contained mold growing in the fridge. 

It'd been almost three years but they hadn't binned any of Sherlock's things or packed them away and stored in them attic. It was all still in place cluttering the flat. The table with his experiments, the creepy skulls it was all there. Except for his violin. They noticed it missing about a week after they'd buried Sherlock. John had just wanted to pluck at the strings and had curled up in bed for a few hours, calling in sick for work when they realized it was lost or that Mycroft came in and took it. 

They were silent because what was there to say? Neither could bear to say _his_ name out loud again without crying. And as Greg stared at Sherlock's chair like he had a million times before, dreaming of Sherlock sitting there, he realized it could be a reality now that the detective was alive.

Alive. God it made it like the last two and a half years never happened. 

But the wounds were open and raw. He as sure wasn't ready to have Sherlock back into their daily lives. Greg didn't have to ask if John was, he could tell by the absent look on his face. Yet now that Sherlock was back things seemed emptier than ever.  


* * *

A week had gone by with no word from Sherlock or even Mycroft. There was nothing in the media either concerning the 'fake genius's' return from the dead. Greg and John wondered if maybe, he had gone underground again because of how they reacted. It hurt the cop's heart to think he'd never see him again. 

Greg nodded at a few constables on his way into Scotland Yard and chatted with Anderson about last night's episode of The Graham Norton Show. He snagged a vanilla frosted doughnut with festive green and red sprinkles from the box and went to his office.

Everything was normal. Nothing was out of place so his suspicion wasn't raised. It wasn't until he sat in his comfy chair that he saw the card propped up against his inter-office phone. Greg grabbed it in a flash, the cardstock heavy in his hands. He turned the card over and frowned seeing the familiar flourish. He unfastened his mobile from his belt clip and speed dialed John's number.

"Did you get a card as well?"

"Hello to you too," Greg laughed as he glanced down at the card and adjusted the phone between his ear and shoulder. "Yes, I did. What does yours say?"

Greg could hear John breathing on the other end as he pondered. "It's embarrassing."

The copper grinned. "I bet you five quid mine is more humiliating." 

"You're on."

"Hold on, I need to close the door."

John laughed heartily. "Seriously that awful?"

The door's lock clicked softly and Greg turned down the blinds. "Yeah, you ready?"

"Lay it on me."

Greg cringed and shook his head. "Please God never said that again."

"Agreed."

The cop sat in his chair and put his feet on his desk. "Are you sitting down?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake Greg," John exclaimed. "I could have diagnosed five kids with strep throat by now. What's your bloody card say?!"

Greg cleared his throat and read, "I love you like a back alley whore loves crack." The cop started laughing when he heard John spluttering on the other end. "I take it I won the five quid?"

"Why the fuck did he give you that?"

"Maybe because the first time I arrested him was on drugs charge?" Greg offered. "It was coke, not crack. He even wrote a lengthy letter on the back about it. Did he write on yours?" He waited for a response but John didn’t answer. There seemed to be commotion on his end. Greg waited five seconds. "John? You there?"

"Check your telly. This Morning."

Still holding his mobile to his shoulder, Greg briskly walked out of his office and to the common area of the precinct. Everyone was gathered around the TV, pointing, talking excitedly, even taking pictures or videos of the telly screen with their mobiles. When Greg got a clear view of the TV screen his face fell. 

The scrolling banner across the telly read LONDON'S CONSULTING DETECTIVE ALIVE AFTER 2 1/2 YEARS

Sherlock was immaculately dressed, the studio make-up and lights attempted to make him not as pale. He looked utterly bored and according to the captions, Sherlock was in the middle of deducing what kind of sexual kinks presenter Ruth Langsford liked and when she had she and her husband had last done these acts, much to her obvious embarrassment and that of her husband, fellow co-host Eamonn Holmes.

"That son of a bitch," Greg spoke into the phone. He looked down and noticed that John had already hung up.

One of the younger constables turned around and saw him. She gasped and pointed at him, shaking her finger. Suddenly the whole crowd surrounded him, demanding answers. 

"Why did you lie to us, sir?"

"I want my nutcracker back!"

"Has Sherlock been living with you all this time?"

He'd never been claustrophobic, but now Greg felt like he couldn't breathe. It was so suffocating. Someone roughly grabbed his shoulder, pulling him along out of the mass. Greg was about to thank the person until he realized he was face to face with the Commissioner. 

"My office. Now."  


* * *

It was late when Greg got back to the flat. For once he was grateful for a police escort to keep everyone at bay. He only wished he had that while at work. _Everyone_ bothered him. The Commissioner questioned him for two hours until he was satisfied. Everyone from Donovan to the college interns barged into his office demanding answers about Sherlock, certain that he had been a complete arse for the past two and a half years and lying through his teeth. He wanted to punch each and every one of them in their faces. 

And Jesus, the phone calls. His work phone hadn't stopped ringing since Sherlock's interview. It was policy that he had to answer every call otherwise he would have unplugged it. Morning talks shows and radio programmes wanting interviews and comments. Yeah, he gave them a comment, to shove it! 

From the outside Greg saw that the lights were still on. John was awake. This was going to be fun. He jogged up the flight of stairs and to his surprise the door to their flat was cracked open. 

John was sitting at the kitchen table, his hands buried in his short hair, staring intently at the mug in front of him. The detective inspector noticed that there was also a mug at his place too. John's head shot up when Greg knocked gently on the wood of the kitchen's archway. His eyes were red rimmed but his cheeks were bare as if he had been crying earlier.

John bent over and grabbed something from his bag that was under his chair. He held the item out for his partner.

Greg took it and couldn't help but smile. It was a card similar to his. Different coloring, pale and with a man with a large mustache who had his head pillowed in a woman's bosom. The card simply read 'I wanna do boring things with you'. 

"You know how he was always _bored_ ," John drawled out the word. "He says he hates my mustache."

"On the back?" Greg turned the card over and looked over Sherlock's elegant writing. 

"Left his new mobile number, too."

"Same with mine. I'm not sure if I should add it or block it yet."

John nodded, sighing deeply. "I left work early," he stated. "It was just… too much. Ah, tea's warm. Just made it a minute ago, I think."

Greg sat opposite his lover in his chair, his feet ached and it was a great relief. He felt the ceramic of the mug. Cold. John must have lost track of time. 

"I can't believe he did that," John scoffed. "No, I can. It's just like him. Walk back into our lives, give us someecards and doesn't even cross his gigantic brain to tell us he's going public."

Greg hummed. "That's our Sherlock."

"He's not _our_ Sherlock anymore!" John snapped. "He hasn't been for a long time."

The detective inspector sucked in a breath. "You don't mean that."

The only sound for several minutes was the clock ticking by. Greg was patient, his hands cupped around his mug as he waited for an answered. Finally, John hissed as if he had been burned. He scrubbed his face. "Fuck, Greg, I don't know." He bit his lip as he looked at the detective. "Make love to me."

"What?"

"Make love to me, Greg. Here. On the table. Today's been shit. I want you to make me forget."

They didn't waste time. John swept off the mugs from the table; the ceramic shattering on the tile made Greg cringe. The doctor rounded on Greg kissing him possessively, dominating his mouth. During the kiss, Greg took the time to undo John's trousers, and stuck his hand down his pants, fisting his half-hard dick. John moaned into the kiss and let go, his lips swollen. They undressed sloppily, not caring where their clothes landed. The only thing Greg kept on was his socks. 

Roughly, he bent John over the table, and spread his arse cheeks. Greg squatted down and stuck his tongue in his lover's ring of muscle. John groaned, thrusting back as he was fucked with the detective tongue. The doctor's knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the table. "Greg, do it!"

He couldn't deny his partner any longer. As he stood, Greg kissed john's spine earning a shiver from the younger man. He twisted around and found some oil they kept in the kitchen for just such an occasion and squeezed some onto his palm and member. The cop lined up his cock with John's entrance, stroking the curve of John's bum. "You ready?"

"Always."

He entered John slowly, enjoying the heat around his cock. He caressed John's hips and arse as he leisurely went back and forth, making little progress. John whimpered and shivered beneath him, falling apart so soon. Once he was fully seated within his lover's arse, Greg stayed there, still.

" _Greg_ ," John moaned. "Please I need you."

The cops's eyes dilated. Roughly, he grabbed John's wrists, turning his arms about and crossing his wrists so they lay on his back. "Stay like that and don't move, or I won't let you come."

John moaned and thrust back. 

Greg smacked his bum hard five times. When he was through it was pink. "Answer me," he commanded.

"Yes," John hissed. His face was contorted on its side, his mouth squished against the table at an odd angle. "I won't move. Please, Greg, fuck me."

He didn't hold back; he couldn't any longer. He fucked John like a jackrabbit, pumping in and out of that tight hole like a machine. The sucking and slapping sounds of flesh against flesh were so obscene. John's mouth was stretched wide open. Greg couldn't help but think that _if_ Sherlock were here that John's mouth would be filled with the genius' large cock. He'd be busy sucking it down and Sherlock would be staring straight at Greg as he said the dirtiest things to bring both of his lovers to the brink. 

Greg groaned as he filled John's body with his seed, smiling as he heard his lover's own cry a moment later.

"It's," John gasped. "It's not the same."

It should have made him flinch or feel inadequate as a lover. But it didn't. John was only confirming what he felt as well. "No," he said as he pulled out of John. "No it's not."  


* * *

Sherlock stormed into the morgue of St. Bart's, his long wool coat flowing behind him, riding crop in hand. He startled Molly whose lipstick was two shades pinker than yesterday. He sat cross-legged on the floor underneath the slab of the corpse Molly was working on and tapped the leather tongue of the crop against this knee. 

" _Why_?"

Molly leaned down by the waist, her long hair getting in the way of her face. "Erm, hello again Sherlock. Not here because you need another death faked, I suppose?"

He shot daggers at her for her idiocy. "No. I needed to think."

"Think?" She repeated.

"Mycroft is too busy running the world. Greg and John won't take my calls. My skull's still at the flat."

Molly scooted down beside him, leaving a good foot between them. "What do you need to think about then, that you need a skull for?"

Sherlock smiled a little before increasing the tapping of the riding crop. "It's Greg and John."

"Yes?" Molly prompted. 

"I—" Sherlock scrunched up his face. "I may have messed things up between us. And I need to fix it."

"I could have told you that two and half years ago!"

Sherlock whipped his head around to glare at her. "What?"

"Didn't you think how this would affect either of them Sherlock? Really think not just your overnight planning? It's been years and those two have never really gotten over your 'death'" she said in quotation marks. "They make a pilgrimage to your grave every few months. John stopped blogging. Greg got a tattoo for you, I think. They still live at Baker Street with all of your shit untouched for God's sake! If that doesn't show that they still are mourning you, Sherlock then you are the thickest person I have ever met!"

The consulting detective blinking up at her. As she made to get up, he grasped her wrist. "How would you suggest I fix this?"

"Have you apologized?"

"I sent them cards."

Molly huffed. " _Cards_ , Sherlock?"

"It's what the internet suggested and plenty of people seemed to like them." He pulled copies out from his coat and handed them over to Molly.

She took one look at them and literally smacked herself in the face with the cardstock. "Christ, Sherlock, really?! These are sommeecards!"

"Yes I am literate," he stated. "I have been since a very young age."

"They are _humorous_ cards. Funny. Not romantic at all. Why the hell did you give these to John and Greg as some sort of an apology?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "As I told you, the internet rated them very highly."

"Did you at least say I'm sorry?"

"For what? For the cards? No, the cards are still amazing."

"No, you daft git," Molly hit the detective with the cardstock over his head. "Did you tell them you're sorry about faking your death and leaving them behind—"

Suddenly, Sherlock jumped to his feet, his mouth a wide 'o' shape. He kissed Molly's cheeks and made a mad dash out of the morgue. Molly shook her head. _Daft git_ , she thought.  


* * *

They walked hand-in-hand through the snow back to the flat. They'd just come back from a film. Greg hadn't enjoyed it much but John had loved the original back in early 2000s so they thought they would give the sequel a try. 

John gave his hand a tiny squeeze as the turned the corner onto Baker Street. Things between them had been rough since Sherlock had made his unexpected return from the grave. Reporters and even some co-workers kept hounding them, begging for answers or an audience with the great Sherlock Holmes. Luckily their friends knew to back off. John and Greg as a couple, hadn't been very _couple-y_. Since the night they fucked on the table they hadn't had any sort of sex. Greg was too afraid of thinking of Sherlock again. Honestly, he had sneaked off to the janitor's cupboard once or twice at work and wanked off, fantasizing about Sherlock's long pale skin and dark curls. Something he hadn't done in years.

When they neared their flat, Greg swore he heard the faint sounds of a violin. John stopped, forcing the detective inspector to do the same. They both listened intently. The music was _wonderful_. Something neither of them had heard in a long time. So organic and complicated. It was deep and sorrowful, then would jump into action. Greg could picture Sherlock's bow, what looked like wild movements to him was calculated to the violinist. 

A shadow passed across the window of the flat. It could be Mrs. Hudson but… Greg held his breath, hoping, waiting.

The figure came by the window again and paused there long enough to be recognized. Black curls and a blue dressing gown was all Greg needed to confirm that it was Sherlock.

Still holding hands, Greg and John raced down Baker Street, up the flight up stairs and burst into their flat. 

Sherlock was waiting for them. Casually dressed in his pajamas and the blue silk dressing gown, his feet bare. He only glanced at them as they entered, then he closed his eyes as he often did while playing. 

They stood there for a good ten minutes watching him play. The music was enchanting, like a fairy tale. Finally, Sherlock drew out the final note, setting down his bow and violin on his desk in one quick movement. He crossed the room in long purposeful strides. When he made it to his former lovers Sherlock cupped their faces. "I'm sorry," he whispered, barely audible. "I know that you don't want to know why I did it," he said looking at John directly. "But I am sorry that it had to happen the way it did. If," he gulped. "If there's any way you—"

Greg doesn't remember who moved first. He remembered crashing his lips against Sherlock's for the first time in years, and _GOD_ it felt bloody amazing. Somehow they wound up on the sofa, Sherlock sandwiched in the middle, John's feet spread across them and Greg resting his head on the consulting detective's shoulder. 

"We can't go back to how it was," John murmured. "Not after—"

"Understood." Sherlock nodded, agreeing.

"We need time." Greg titled Sherlock's chin and leaned in for a quick kiss. Sherlock's lips were so warm and smooth. Christ, he'd missed this. He felt somewhat whole again.

"But we're," the youngest in their trio breathed in deeply. "We're _okay_?"

Greg and John exchange looks behind their lover's head. John's eyes were full of light and twinkling and his face was happy. Greg had a feeling his looked a bit similar.

"Well," John said lazily, teasing one of Sherlock's curls around his fingers.

"We're okay," Greg smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> * Kudos are amazing and I will never stop asking for them, but getting comments, actual feedback from readers means so much. Taking five seconds out of your time can really make my day.
>   
> 
> * You can follow me on [tumblr](http://mm8fic.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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